American Horror Story - Season 1-5 - Christmas 2017
by leaftheweed
Summary: One-shot stand-alone fluff-stuff. It is canon to the Season I've been writing but was written as a pick-me-up after I got done writing a particularly unhappy scene. So I'm posting it outside of any episode. It's Christmas past. Chad's been slipping Tate drugs from Ben that have some interesting side effects on Christmas Eve.


**2017 - Christmas Eve**

"We always waited," Patrick said.

"Not us," said Chad. "We always got to open one the night before."

They were seated at opposite ends of the sofa, divided by child-sized Tate, who had passed out with his head nearest Patrick. It had happened very quickly and would have been alarming except that they'd seen it happen a few times now. Doctor Harmon had assured Chad it was something that would pass.

"I always thought Christmas would be more exciting if I'd had siblings," admitted Patrick. "As nice as it was to get all the presents to myself, it would have been more fun if there was someone right there to play with."

"It was," said Chad without humility. "Between my sisters and I, we had the spread of toys. We'd take Barbie and GI Joe camping. One year our little sister got a whole collection of ponies and she used them to enslave our dolls. She even drove a few off a cliff. Well, really it was the sofa but in their world it was a cliff. Barbie pleaded for their lives but those ponies were ruthless."

Patrick couldn't help his peculiar look. "I take it back. I think I'm glad I didn't have siblings after all."

"Pfft," said Chad. "You just have no imagination. All those muscles strangled it out of you."

"If that's what passes for imagination, you can keep it."

Tate stirred and blinked a few times. "Hi," he said when he focused on Patrick.

"Hi," said Pat.

Tate lay there looking at him for a moment. Then he smiled. "You sure have pretty eyes."

"Uh. Thanks?" Patrick said, not knowing what else to say.

"You should be a model," said Tate. Then he shut his eyes again.

Patrick glanced over at Chad, who didn't know what to make of it. The side effects of the drug Doctor Harmon prescribed had become more noticeable over the past week; it was getting harder to ignore.

Tate stretched and opened his eyes again. When he saw Patrick he smiled. "Hi," he said again.

"Hi," repeated Pat. He sent Chad a Look.

Tate saw that glance and looked over. He twitched violently. "Holy shit!" he said, staring at Chad. Then he said very quietly: "Why do you have a panther?"

"A panther?"

Chad frowned. He took a discreet look over his shoulder and around the room. There was nothing remotely like a panther in the room. To complicate things, Tate was looking right at Chad when he said it.

"Is it tame?" Tate asked, very much wanting the answer to be yes.

"I'm not a panther," Chad said without humor.

"Oh, I guess it is tame," said Tate, sitting up a little. "It can talk. Can I pet it?" Then, to Chad: "Can I pet you?"

"No!" Chad snapped.

Tate had put out a hand but he pulled it back quickly, in case the panther decided to take a swipe at him.

"He's not a panther," Patrick said in a calm tone he'd used on drunks and crash victims when he was an EMT. "It's Chad."

"Chad turned into a puma?" Tate squinted at the black-haired man. "Why?"

"I'm not a puma," Chad said flatly. "I think you need to go to bed."

"We'll have to get off the boat first," said Tate. "Can pumas swim?"

"I'm not a puma!"

"Chad," Patrick interceded. "Not helping." Then, to Tate: "Hey. You want a piggy-back ride?"

Tate beamed. "Yeah!"

He scrambled around behind Patrick and latched onto his back and hooked his arms around the burly man's neck. Pat sent Chad a withering look, which the other man pretended not to notice. Then he carried Tate out of the sitting room and up the stairs. Once in Tate's room he sat on the bed and it was his intention to dump the kid off onto the mattress but Tate managed to squirm his way around front and planted a kiss on the corner of Pat's mouth.

"Hey!" Patrick objected.

He picked Tate up then and in one fluid motion stood and put the child down on the bed. Tate sprang up to his hands and knees with a grin and started to crawl toward him.

"Tate," warned Patrick. "You're a child. You need to act like one."

Tate blinked, confused by that logic. He glanced down at his hands, wiggled his fingers, then looked at Patrick again. "I'm not a child." And so saying, he reverted to his normal form.

Pat groaned inwardly. "You need to sleep."

"But I'm not tired."

"You're more tired than you think," said Pat. "Age down and tuck in."

Tate sat down where he was at. "Make me," he grinned.

"Tate," Patrick said. He really didn't want to get mean. He could tell he was dealing with the drug, not the person, but he didn't know what else to do. Then he had a thought. "Tomorrow's Christmas morning. If you don't age down and go to sleep, Santa can't come."

In retrospect it was a silly notion but it actually worked. Tate blinked a few times and then shrank down to his pre-pubescent form. Patrick couldn't help a sigh of relief but he stifled it quickly.

"Come on," he said. "Tuck in. The sooner you sleep, the sooner it's Christmas."

"Wow," said Tate as he crawled up the bed. "I like Christmas."

"I know," said Patrick. He waited till Tate flopped down then he covered him up loosely. "You have to stay in bed. Got it? You remember the stories. Santa only comes when kids are sleeping."

"Like the boogieman," Tate mumbled. Now that he was laying down and in a familiar sleeping spot he was suddenly feeling very sleepy.

"More like the tooth fairy," said Patrick. "The boogieman doesn't leave gifts."

But Tate was already asleep. Pat watched him for several minutes to be sure he didn't wake again like downstairs. Then he quietly left the room. He considered going and chewing out Chad but tomorrow _was_ Christmas.

"He's asleep," was all he said when he got back to the sitting room.

Chad had expected a worse reaction so he looked a little surprised but he covered it quickly. "Santa time, then?"

"Santa time."

Playing at Christmas and Santa was Chad's wish. It was an aspect of parenting he'd looked forward to while living. The role play came easy compared to pretending Tate's behavior earlier wasn't bizarre and talk-worthy. It was much easier - and much more fun - to arrange packages, nibble Santa cookies, and rehash Christmases past. It was an escape for them both; denial to a multifaceted degree - but it made for a silent night.

**xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

I think this is complete. I may add more to it at some point in the future, about the other ghosts' Christmases. Not sure. So I'll call this complete for now.


End file.
